Notice: “Quiet Revolution” and “The Bones of the Buddha” are not visible while viewing Tales of Wisdom Not to Abide on mobile, due to the impossibility of accurately translating them to a smaller screen. If you wish to read those specific poems, you will need to view them in desktop. Thank you for understanding.
Tales of Wisdom to Not Abide; Poetry from the Glass Citadel
"Of the Teacher Who Thought to Teach the Beggar to Fish"
The teacher came upon a beggar by the side of the road and asked:
You, why are you begging by the side of the road?
I am begging for I have no food, and I must eat.
If I were to give you food for today, what would you eat tomorrow?
I do not know what I will eat tomorrow, but that does not matter if I have no food for today.
What if I could give you something more valuable than food, would you then take it?
I do not believe you could give me something more valuable than food, but if you truly do have something more valuable than food and wish to give it to me, I would of course surely take it.
Then follow me, and you will never have to beg another day in your life.
And so the student followed the teacher to the small pier.
The teacher then took from a box a line of string,
And on the end of the string was a modest hook.
The teacher then reached down and took a little fish,
Which had been laying in the sun since it was caught.
Might I have that fish to eat, teacher?
No, you may not.
But why? You know I am hungry, and I believe you to be charitable, so why may I not eat?
Because with this fish you will not worry about both today and tomorrow.
With that, the teacher attached the fish as bait, and cast the line off of the pier.
The student waited, impatiently, angry at the teacher, knowing not what was learned.
Right as the student was about to go back to begging, believing this wasted, a fish bit,
And soon the teacher had pulled in the fish, twice as large as the fish used as bait.
The teacher showed the student the fish, and so the student then believed.
Do you understand what I have shown you, student?
Yes, I understand, teacher.
Then you may take of this fish, and eat it.
Thank you, teacher.
The student took the fish from the teacher’s hands,
And was about to bite it, but then got an idea.
Teacher, are there bigger fish out there which I could catch?
Why yes, there are some fish so big a man need only catch one and he would be full his entire life. But those fish are nowhere near this small pier. To catch one, you would need a boat, and you would need to sail far away from here.
Teacher, I have asked much of you, but I must ask once more, might I borrow a boat?
Of course, my student. Take that one there.
Thank you, teacher.
With thoughts of tomorrow, the student sailed.
Once off the shore, the student took the string and hook,
And with the fish that was caught, threw the line,
Then rowed onwards.
A fish then was on the line, and the student grabbed it,
And pulled in a fish twice as big as the one used to catch it.
With thoughts of tomorrow, the student sailed.
Once off the coast, the student took the string and hook,
And with the fish that was caught, threw the line,
Then rowed onwards.
A fish then was on the line, and the student grabbed it,
And pulled in a fish twice as big as the one used to catch it.
With thoughts of tomorrow, the student sailed.
Once out in the sea, the student took the string and hook,
And with the fish that was caught, threw the line,
Then rowed onwards.
A fish then was on the line, and the student grabbed it,
And pulled in a fish twice as big as the one used to catch it.
With thoughts of tomorrow, the student sailed.
Once out in the ocean, the student took the string and hook,
And with the fish that was caught, threw the line,
Then waited.
A fish, the largest fish, was then on the line, so the student started.
Though the student pulled on the line, the fish was stronger,
And soon the line snapped, and the fish was gone.
The student realized there was no more food for tomorrow nor today,
And so with thoughts of today, the student called out over the ocean,
Over the sea, over the coast, towards the pier, calling for the teacher.
But the student’s calls were not heard by the teacher.
Yet, the calls were heard by another, and the fish rose out of the water,
The largest fish itself, with thousands of hooks scarring its body.
Oh fish, you took my only bait, how am I to feed myself now?
Why did you not eat your food instead of try to eat me?
If I had caught you, fish, I could feed myself for my whole life.
Why must you have all the food you’ll ever need at once?
Because if I have it all at once, I would never need to worry about the future, fish.
Why would you need to worry about the future?
If I do not have food for tomorrow, fish, how am I to know I will not go hungry tomorrow?
If every day you get food for today, you will never need to worry about tomorrow.
Then, the fish, the largest fish, swam under waters,
And pulled from the waters a small fish.
The fish, the largest fish, gifted the small fish,
And the student ate it, no longer hungry.
“Of the Teacher Who Thought to Stop the Tree from Swaying in the Wind”
After a lesson, the Teacher was walking down the path when he spied two trees on either side of him. The first tree was tall, and was strong, and was rigid. This is a tall, strong, rigid tree, the Teacher thought. The second tree was short, and was sickly, and was pliant. This is a short, sickly, pliant tree, the Teacher thought. Why can’t you be more like the other tree, why can’t you rather be tall, strong, and rigid instead of short, sickly, and pliant? The tree, of course, had no response to the Teacher.
After the next day’s lesson, the Teacher was walking down the path again when he spied the same two trees on either side of him. The first tree was still tall, and was still strong, and was still rigid. The second tree was still short, and was still sickly, and was still pliant. The Teacher, then, had an idea. I shall make you like the other tree, I shall make you tall, I shall make you strong, I shall make you rigid, the Teacher said.
Before the next day’s lesson, the Teacher was walking up the path and stopped in front of the second tree. The Teacher fastened around the tree three logs. The logs straightened the drooping tree, and it was no longer short, but was now tall. The logs straightened the drooping tree, and it was no longer sickly, but was now strong. The logs straightened the drooping tree, and it was no longer pliant, but was now rigid.
After that day’s lessons, the Teacher was walking down the path when a windstorm struck. After it had passed, the Teacher spied the two trees on either side of the path. The tall, strong, rigid tree did not sway in the wind, and had snapped in the wind. The logs which straightened the short, sickly, pliant tree had fallen over, yet the tree itself did sway in the wind, and had not snapped in the wind. The Teacher picked up the three logs and left.
"Third Tale About the Wolf"
And so it happened that in a violent hunting accident the wolf’s mother and father were killed, yet so too was the hunter. The cub laid at their feet for some time, the snow unrelenting. Lacking both warmth and knowledge, the wolf took from the hunter his woolen clothes as the snow only sought to continue.
He then wandered: through frigid tundra and searing desert, all ignorant of his orphaned state. Yet, in the pastoral meadows, was he mistaken for a lost sheep by a drunken shepherd. Returned to the flock, he at last felt salvation’s grasp.
And so he stayed with the old man and his grandson, Peter. All were deceived, both man and sheep, save those wolves who sought to prey upon the sheep; finding one with barred teeth did drive them away.
Then in the night he would hunt in the copse for offerings, so that his new masters might wolf them down. But he could never get anything more than a duck: the bird would always fly to the tops of the trees, and the cat would always climb up after her, leaving him to watch the pond only to overtake the unsuspecting duck.
Yet one day did two more hunters pass by the flock, and being undeceived, they set upon the wolf. But he was not the cub that he used to be, and struck them two down with a violence which alarmed the old shepherd.
He and Peter saw the treacherous deed and knew then that they had been deceived. So next Peter, disobeying his grandfather’s caution, took the gun off one of the hunters and shot dead the wolf.
“That was foolish” said his grandfather, “that wolf could have killed you.” Peter, of course, felt all the braver. But the wolf would not have killed Peter.
"The Country Aristocrat"
There was a country aristocrat
who, with his dog, went hunting
in search of a plump grouse.
He scared a few birds into the air
and took a shot at a startled one
which fell back downwards.
He sent his dog to sniff and find it,
to which he was brought back
the plumpest cardinal.
It was fat and sweet, but it was no grouse,
so he tossed it aside in the grass
and continued his hunt.
He scared a few more birds into the air
and took a shot at a startled one
which fell back downwards.
He sent his dog to sniff and find it,
to which he was brought back
the plumpest swallow.
It was fat and sweet, but it was no grouse,
so he tossed it aside in the grass
and continued his hunt.
He scared even more birds into the air
and took a shot at a startled one
which fell back downwards.
He sent his dog to sniff and find it,
to which he was brought back
the plumpest dove.
It was fat and sweet, but it was no grouse,
so he tossed it aside in the grass
and continued his hunt.
Then finally he saw a nesting grouse
which he approached with due care,
but he accidentally startled it.
He took his shot and it fell crashing down,
and so he sent his dog to retrieve it,
but his dog was too tired
from running back and forth
retrieving all the other birds.
So, the landed man searched and searched,
but he never was able to find it,
and instead came home with nothing.
"Quiet Revolution"
Saya San hangs Zapata stands beside It’s a quiet revolution
as a portrait in my himself, wishing to be of the earth out here in
trailer. in Morelos. Wyoming.
Dogwood and dog The quiet of the I shoot a
days describe my fields mean it’s my time picture to save this
wearied ways. for going. place in my mind.
I pack up my Trapped in my But I’m heading out
home, and take down duffle bag, they think West, just as soon as I’m
my portraits. they’re going home. Abel.
I hop the last boxcar before I arrive in California. The scent of the rust, metal harsh to the touch, and grey skies mark my mistakes. Convicts and castaways greet me in kind, and they swap out their stories for a few of mine: gas station robberies, on a little too much booze, going about twice as much better than the stories told by those who don’t speak at all. Vermin and clouds pass on a few of their choice words, before I say my goodbyes to the rocky mountains high.
The middle of the ocean, nowhere specific, on a freightful of metals fashioned like tractors and all sorts of junk. I don’t have a ticket, but I know where I’m going: heading out West, somewhere down in Russia; I’ve got my jacket and a good pair of mittens, knitted by my sister many years ago. The machines with their sheen give a good strong handshake, and they roar out their blessings just like in Wyoming, when in the height of the summer you just can’t hear a thing.
I arrive before the white-gold church of Kideksha. The Nerl river runs cold this time of year. The limestone and grime on the stones tell me to take off my hat, and I enter with a bow, as though a present all wrapped. I meet with a woman, who gave back my heart. I asked to hear it, the story again, and she related to me how this place earned its name.
Oh! How I’ve treated my brother, like the heartless Accursed, and swallowed the princely and saintly from him. I’m struck like my hero, the horn blowing thrice: betrayal and misery line all my pockets, a red-silver linen like the iron of blood.
Before I leave, I sign all my prayers because the Lord must be deaf.
I throw a I make Hop back Fly off the I swim back Anger and
coup in my haste back on my ends of my to California sweetness
heart. to the start. hopes. ropes. without rest. in my breast.
I scream Won’t be- Whisper Make a Remember I drift off
again at come one to the scene for old stories again as I
the clouds. with crowds. willows. my pillows. and rejoice. decide my next choice
Could you please sing a song
Where the prince was oh, so wrong?
He did not climb the tower,
Just laid low and stopped to cower.
Do you know if you could sing
A song that goes just like that?
And as he woke up in his mind, he forgot all his stories. He forgot all his heroes. He forgot the stories the wind had whispered softly in that January breeze. He forgot the orchestra of crickets he always attended each night. He forgot the boxcars and barges, and man and machine. He forgot of the stories the Earth had screamed, the same one of the Urals and the Rockies, only one was deeper than the other. He forgot of the opera his sister’s cat commenced when the crack of a can was heard. He forgot of the hunting stories his uncle always lied about as his dad sat silently distressed. He forgot of the misspeaks of his brother in a broken financial institution, pens and telephones littered everywhere. He forgot of the squeaking woes echoed out by the rubber duckies of the whole world. He forgot his dreams. He forgot of the saintly princes, or were they princely saints? He forgot the state of the world, the heart that it broke. But yet he did not forget You.
3:47 am. Texaco Station, Guajardo Boulevard at Chinameca Street. 3 reported gunshots, 1 confirmed fatality.
Two Saturdays
later, there was a
funeral nearly
unattended.
"The Bones of the Buddha"
Announce their silent return:
the fires cannot burn.
But, the fire was illusory ––
constancy is not them.
The long journey home does
tire the old soul; though it is
of course not the old that is
now returning, for that soul
never once existed: imagined.
Saintly relics present themselves
what little they can offer;
however, hope always seems such,
though their bones be now
ground, on which I build my house.
like sand,
The imagination of your mind requests:
“Oh, but do not abandon me,
do not forsake me to my old
mythological ways: lead me
into history, I shall shape it
how it must of course be shaped.
The Bones of the Buddha
retorts all the wiser:
“sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh /// What? /// [Of course it should show up as such]. ??? ʃ, Shilling, SH! S-s-s-s-s-s-sh! Or so said the Man in the Moon. Oorial, sceabb , no skabbr, no – the sheep! Oh, get rid of yourself…. [How miserable we all are. No, we]. In the silence, you of course hear a loud racket. SKRAAAAASH! SHATTER SHATTER SHATTER SHATTER! [I will not make it so]. Request Denied? Unacceptable, reads what you can only assume is a book, though the author is anonymous, or rather foreign, from Nunavut. At least, that’s what I assume, though I of course force my assumptions on you. [Hate the request, slightly the person]. SHAKE SHAKE SHAKE. The prevailing opinion is typically ––––––, so as such, precede to – ––– – – ––––. /// What? Of course the Buddha is not Jewish, and would not know of the Sabbath, so please forgive him his ignorance. Not of the house, but of the fallen beech-mast. TIMBER! TIM_BER! TIME_BR? [Oh, why don’t you just sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh] A rude interaction, unaware of the four maxims of polite conversation, breaching Qualitative measurements, you notice. (Impartiality: that is incorrect). Again, the prevailing opinion is typically ––––––––––. Positively fal—– WRONG!”
Heeding the Buddha’s wisdom
imagination forgave me.